


Sociopathic Paradoxes

by cuddleholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I'm so sorry, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Maybe smut a bit later on if I feel like it, Post Reichenbach, Psychogenic Amnesia, Psychology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:22:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddleholmes/pseuds/cuddleholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faking your death in order to save someone has its issues. Sherlock Holmes definitely realises this when he returns to find that his best friend and love of his life John Watson has moved on, and doesn't remember Sherlock at all...</p><p>(Some people MAY find this triggering.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Um hello so this is my first Johnlock fic! I don't know, this might be somewhat crappy. I have a basic outline but I'm mainly making it up as I go along. This is also my first time publishing something on AO3 so hello~! It's basically a mix of The Empty Hearse and my own ideas so don't yell at me because "it didn't happen like that in the episode!", it's merely a stencil to assist me. I hope you like it c:

_"One more miracle," his broken voice spoke. "Sherlock. For me. Don't be... dead."_

Those words were lodged in his mind, locked in and not even the strongest of keys could remove it. A whirring vortex of pain. A raging torrent, cascading into a waterfall of memories made. Sherlock Holmes daren't ever admit how much the words broke him, but who would he even talk to about it?

It had been two long years since the consulting detective last saw his best friend, the army doctor. His "death" brought misery to all of his old friends, and Sherlock had decided that it was time to return. John, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade; it was time to see them again.

Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, knew about the fake death. Mycroft was in on it. It only seemed fair that his family knew that he wasn't dead, right? However, Mycroft wasn't nearly as keen as Sherlock when he announced his news.

"You know, brother mine, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome back into his life," Mycroft let out what Sherlock believed to be a sigh, heaving himself up from his black office chair and manouvering himself around the table and leaning on the front of it.

"No," the younger brother interrupted. "No, it isn't. I trust you've been keeping a close eye on him for me during my absence?"

If he were not so high up in the British government and too formal for it, Mycroft would have rolled his eyes. Instead, he let out another sigh. "Obviously, Sherlock. He and I meet up every Friday for fish and chips."

"Ah, wonderful! How-"

"I was being sarcastic."

"Oh." Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek sheepishly, making his cheekbones look more prominent. 

Mycroft was unable to remain silent for longer than five seconds without groaning and snapping his fingers, Anthea entering the room almost instantly, clutching the sociopath's beloved Belstaff coat in both hands. She even popped the collar for him, which earned something dangerously close to a pleased smile to appear on Sherlock's face. "Of course I've kept an eye on him. He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. However, I'd be careful, there's something you should kno-"

"Thank you," Sherlock hummed, taking the coat off the young girl and putting it on, ruffling the mass of curls placed on his head. "I shall be in contact with you again soon," he nods towards his brother. "Blud."

***

Sherlock approached the door to the restaurant, handing his Belstaff to a member of staff. As soon as he entered, his eyes scanned the room in search of John Watson and he hesitated at what he saw. Adjacent to John was a young woman; short blonde hair, incredibly beautiful, most likely his date. But since when was John the kind of guy who dated? It was a good few seconds until Sherlock was interrupted by a waitress who scurried in front of him and her strong French accent rang in his ears. "Excuse me, sir."

And that's where Sherlock Holmes had a plan. His gaze was averted to a nearby vacant table, grabbing the menu off it and holding it tightly. Deductions of the woman overpowered him;  ** _Only child, linguistic, cat lover, liar, size 12, bakes own bread, has a tattoo, disillusioned, romantic, short_** _**sighted-**_

 _ **  
**_"Can I help you with anything, sir?" Sherlock asked rather politely, addressing the two with a French accent.

The ex-soldier laughed nervously, not looking at the waiter. "No, uh, thank you, this isn't the best time."

Sherlock was having _none_ of that. "Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking."

"No, please- I'm sorry, Mary, I... No, sir. Thank you, but not now."

 

By now, the woman who was apparenty named Mary, had lifted up her hand and was attempting to suppress her giggle fit. Her sapphire blue eyes trailed up from her boyfriend to the waiter, and her giggles slowly stopped. She stared at him in both horror and amazement.

"Oh no," she whispered. "You're..."

"Oh yes."

"Oh my god..."

"Not quite."

"But... But you died! You jumped off a roof! It was on the news!" Her whisper had turned into an inaudible hiss, almost as if she didn't want John to hear.

However, John was still oblivious. "Sir, we've already asked you to leave us alone, don't make me call the manager-"

The blonde glared at the army doctor in shock, her mouth hanging open. "Don't you recognise him?"

His brow furrowed. "The waiter? No, I've never seen him before tonight."

Mary's eyes widened, turning back to Sherlock, who was standing rather awkwardly, his bottom lip trembling slightly. And it still didn't receive the response he had hoped for. Sherock felt his heart physically splitting in two pieces by the fact that the night was not going to plan, taking in a sharp breath and murmuring "Well, short version: not dead."

John's facial expression did not change. Mary was furious.

" _John!_ "

"What? I've never seen this dickhead in all my life!" He growled.

This time, it was Mary's turn to take in a sharp breath, and she hissed again. "It's Sherlock! _Sherlock Holmes!_ "

" _Who?!_ "

 

 


	2. Welcome Home.

"...And then he just said ' _who?_!' as if he didn't remember me. Of course he remembers me. I'm his best friend," Sherlock babbled before taking a large mouthful of hot tea. "Typical. It's probably his idea of a joke."

"Dear, I really think you should visit Molly tomorrow," Mrs Hudson responded, a wide grin plastered on her face, which caused the detective to frown. "Oh- sorry. I just can't believe that he's sat in his chair again! Two years, Sherlock. I really wish you had called or something."

"I know, I'm sorry."

"But yes. See Molly tomorrow. She'll..." she paused. "Just see her tomorrow, trust me."

He lightly nibbled on his bottom lip and placed down the purple cup onto the table, steepling his long, elegant fingers in front of him. "Mhm. There's something you're not telling me." With a moment of thought, he bounds himself up and pecks the older woman's cheek before taking ahold of his beloved trenchcoat and throwing it on. "I'm gonna go and show Lestrade that I'm not dead. Later, Hudders."

Her cheek burned a dusty pink where he kissed her and she calls out, "that is _not_ my name, Sherlock!" But he was already half way down the stairs.

***

The dim light in the car park made Sherlock look taller and thinner than he already was. His stilt-like legs appeared to carry him effortlessly towards his destination, a small smirk tugging on his lips as Lestrade comes into view. He watched the detective inspector pull out a small box, about the size of his hand, and pull out a cigarette and lighting it. Sherlock could almost feel the warmth from the lighter even from where he was standing, and in a loud voice, he spoke. "Those things'll kill you."

Lestrade froze. He didn't move or speak for at least three seconds before balancing the cigarette between his index and middle finger gracefully, an indignant expression appearing on his face. "Ooh, you bastard."

Sherlock finally steps out of the dark shadow, his arms clasped behind his back. The lack of light in the car park made his cheekbones look more prominent, more mysterious. His movements were so furtive. "You've been letting things slide, Graham."

" _Greg_."

"...Greg," he corrects himself.

There was a brief moment where neither of the two men did anything but stand there in complete awe, until Lestrade pulled Sherlock into an embrace, an embrace bigger than any John had ever given him. A rather displeased Sherlock allowed it, but did not return the hug; his attention was elsewhere.  _Lestrade had started smoking again during Sherlock's "death"._

***

Her hair was a rich shade of mahagony in a beautiful plait, hanging over her left shoulder. It suited her perfectly over her long, white lab coat. She strolled down the corridors of St Bart's Hospital; the place she knew so well. A large silver bowl was perched under her right arm with a human brain inside. No one ever questioned it - that's Molly Hooper for you. She clumsily pulls out a key from her jeans pocket and unlocked her locker, the bowl still under her right arm. It only took a second for her to look in the mirror to see her flawless reflection, and she froze. The bowl slipped out from her grip and fell to the ground with a CLANK and a SPLAT, spinning around faster than you can say "deductions". 

"Carrying human body parts around with you? You've been taking after me. Well done," a familiar voice spoke, and Molly smiled.

"I thought you were dead, Sherlock."

"That was _kind of_ the point."

Molly leaned over and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, grinning like a child on Christmas morning - or, more likely, grinning like Sherlock Holmes at a crime scene. "So, um, tea?"

Sherlock looked delighted at her offer. Normally, St Barts was filled with an array of doctors and workers, but to the detective's amazement, today it was empty. Not a soul in sight. Motionless, in fact. But his attention returned to the reason Sherlock was even there in the first place. "So, Mrs Hudson told me to come to you."

The girl from the morgue blinked in confusion, and she spoke almost as a nervous whisper. "About what?"

"John."

Her face turned emotionless, gulping at the one word. "Oh, I, uh," Molly stutters, accidentally making her discomfort evident. "I think you'd better sit down, Sherlock."

"No, tell me now."

She gulped, again. "Trust me. It's... it isn't the best of news."

Sherlock did not verbally respond, but instead blinked and, to Molly Hooper's surprisement, obeyed her request. He pulled up a nearby blood-red chair and threw himself onto it, popping his coat collar and gazed at her intently.

Molly took a deep breath and she leant against the table to her right, biting her lip and thinking of how to start her words. Sherlock could see that whatever he was about to learn, it wasn't good, and it was physically destroying Molly one second at a time.

"Psychogenic amnesia... It's memory loss that occurs after severe psychological trauma. Some call it situation-specific amnesia. He- He developed it just after you, er, _passed away_. He remembers his entire life, except for any memories that involved you."

 The sociopath shook his head, his light brows furrowing after the words had finally processed in his busy mind. "That's... That isn't possible." And before he could even argue further, she handed him a large file of paperwork, titled "SUBJECT: WATSON, JOHN HAMISH. DISORDER: SITUATION-SPECIFIC PSYCHOGENIC AMNESIA." He forcefully pulled the file out of her trembling hands. It took a few blinks of his eye to get used to what he was reading, thoroughly reading every paragraph, every damn article. Sherlock bit his lip so hard he began to taste the sourness of blood ooze onto his tongue, his piercing eyes becoming even brighter than they were due to the tears stinging them. His face fell into oblivion; none of them, not even Molly had ever seen him look so utterly crushed. Immobile, too disgusted with himself, and too afraid to say or do anything. The girl from the morgue watched as the heartbroken detective stood angrily, slamming the file down onto the floor and almost shattering the tiles. His cheeks burned a bright crimson.

"Sh- Sherlock?"

No reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I feel like that was really shit but yeah, sorry. I'll try to be better next time, promise!


	3. Not Giving Up Yet

He couldn't believe it.

John Watson had absolutely no memory of the great consulting detective; to him, Sherlock never existed. His raging torrent for a mind was no longer filled with information regarding murders and deductions, but instead overpowered with emotions. And Sherlock hated it.

Dull horror began to flood over Sherlock, not even bothering to end the conversation properly with Molly. How could he? The detective blanched. He turned quickly and sprinted out of the room, not even managing to make it out of the large doors of St. Barts before his vision became nothing but a grey blur, the words hitting so hard that they caused physical pain. His knees buckled, and he started to slip down the wall outside of the hospital, which received a few concerned looks from passing civilians - but they had no idea.

Sherlock thought he might vomit with the complete turmoil he was feeling. By now, tears were streaming down his faded cheeks and dry, wracking sobs were the only sounds he could make. It was at least ten minutes before a sleek, jet black car emerged from the road ajacent to the crying detective. He was able to see his reflection in the shiny, metallic coat of the vehicle, and with a single motion, a door swung open. It was Mycroft. Sherlock had never been so relieved to see his brother in all his life.

"Get in," Mycroft spoke sympathetically, and Sherlock obeyed. He scrambled in and did up his seatbelt, where one of Mycroft's assistants in the large vehicle handed him a tissue. He nodded politely in thanks, lightly dabbing his bloodshot, tear-ridden eyes.

The journey to Mycroft's office only lasted a minimum of ten minutes, and it was mostly silent, except for the occasional sound of Sherlock choking on his sobs. It irritated Mycroft, however he did not comment; in this situation, he didn't blame Sherlock's unusual reaction. 

It wasn't even a second before a rather distraught Sherlock screamed at his brother as soon as they entered his office. "Why the _hell_ didn't you tell me?"

"About what?"

"You bloody well know what, Mycroft."

The iceman took a deep breath and threw himself onto his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. "I care about you far too much, brother mine. It would have broken my heart to have been the bearer of bad news."

He swallowed thickly, his knees feeling weak once again. "So you left it to Molly Hooper to tell me?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft made eye contact with his younger brother, and instantly regretted the decision. It was almost as if he could feel how Sherlock was feeling, and his world was collapsing before him. "I am your brother. I've known you all my life, therefore it did not take me long to deduce how you feel about John-"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I know you're in love with him."

Silence. 

And then, Sherlock spoke. It was not much louder than a whisper, and his voice was broken. 

"What does _that_ have to do with anything? He's moved on, Mycroft. I am not okay with it, however, I understand. I could not, and never will be, what he deserved, and, quite truthfully, he deserved better that me. I'm the most obnoxious arsehole that anyone could have the misfortune to meet. But John was - and still is - my best friend. Did you not believe that I had the right to know that all memories of my existence have been eliminated?"

Words failed the elder Holmes brother. "I- I'm sorry, Sherlock. I _truly_ am."

But Sherlock couldn't to respond to Mycroft's pathetic excuse for an apology. His broken heart was immobile and, for a moment, he only felt numbness. And then an anger and sadness surged through him with so much power, he knew not what to do. His mind went black, as did his heart. His hands tensed and turned to fists, Sherlock dug his fingers into his palms until he felt them bleed. But this pain was nothing compared to how he felt at that moment in time.

"Please, say something."

More silence. And then,

"What can I do to help restore his memory?"

Mycroft blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"What can I do to make John remember me again?" He sniffled. "It's merely a psychological disorder, is it not? His memories of me can be recalled, with some efforts."

"Yes, I believe so," with one swift movement, Sherlock's brother pulled out a large file from beneath his desk and flicked through it, landing on a page and showing Sherlock. "His memories may be restored if you remind him of the times you both had together. Speak to Mary, take him out on cases, take him back to 221B. It should hopefully work."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, a slight spark of hope evident in his bloodshot eyes. He tried his best to ignore the raw pain bleeding from him just by looking at how hurt his younger brother was, but it was not sufficient. "Okay, okay." He took a deep breath and straightened his Belstaff coat, popping the collar up once more as he turned to leave. "I'll try."

"Good luck."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

***

Mycroft had done all the arrangements. Sherlock didn't have to lift a finger. His brother's staff even transported him to Mary and John's new house. However, the detective knew he wouldn't have this easy - if there's one thing he learnt from years as a detective, and being John's best friend, it was that John Hamish Watson was the most stubborn man to walk this earth, and it was going to take a great deal to even so much as get the army doctor to visit a crime scene with him.

"John," Mary called out to her boyfriend, not even realising that she was shaking about as much as Sherlock was. They were both as white as a sheet. "Sherlock's here."

Momentarily, he entered the room, and Sherlock's heart almost fluttered in both worry and relief. John looked as though he hadn't aged a day, he was still exactly as Sherlock remembered him. He smiled sweetly towards Mary, kissing her cheek, and his eyes soon trailed towards the stranger also in the living room. Tall, slim, attractive- John recognised him instantly. As though he had been doused with freezing water, the warm smile on his face was gone. In its place was now a disgusted scowl.

"Um, hello John," Sherlock tried to speak, but that was all that came out.

"Mary, what the _hell_ is that dickhead here?" 

"Dear, just wait a secon-" Mary said soothingly, stepping forward.

"No! No, why is he even here?"

Sherlock tried his best to remain calm, and Mary wrapped her arms around the distressed army doctor, and she responded quickly and  "Listen, John, this will come to a shock to you, but you need to know this. Your amnesia-"

"What about it?" John hissed.

"This man, this man is Sherlock Holmes. He was your best friend and he had to go away for a little while, and just after he went away, you got the amnesia."

John had never been so appalled. He glanced over towards Sherlock, disgusted by what he saw. "There is no way I'd ever be best friends with a freak like that."

"But you were!" Mary continued, desperate for John to remember who he was. "You two went together like it was innate to you both. You solved crimes together - so many!" With that, Mary instantly ran over to the mahogany desk to her left and picked up the acer laptop, opening John's blog and passing the laptop over to him. "A Study In Pink, The Poison Giant, The Speckled Blonde, see?" As her boyfriend continued to skim-read the articles given to him, she hastily rummaged around the desk's drawers and pulled out a handful of old newspapers, blowing the dust off them as a large cloud. "All these papers have articles about you and him - see?"

With another distasted glare at Holmes, he rasped. "I was clearly forced to work with him by Lestrade. There's no way I'd work along side  _that_  by my own decisions."

He turned to see Mary staring at him. "Do you have to be such a dick to him?"

"Why are you defending him?"

"Because he's a good guy. He doesn't deserve you treating him like this," Mary bristled.

"He's an _asshole_!" John spat out, and it was almost as though he could feel the spike of pain coming from Sherlock. 

But Mary had had enough. To both of John and Sherlock's surprise, she took a firm hold on both of their arms and threw them out of the house, causing the two men to fall in a heap on the cold, hard ground outside. "Go out and investigate a new case, Lestrade has one for you both, and John: you're not to return until the case is over."

 


	4. Redbeard

John and Sherlock exchanged less than a dozen words on the way to the crime scene, which suited John fine. As for Sherlock? It was breaking him inside, but of course, he sustained a complete poker face throughout the taxi drive to their destination. As soon as they arrived, Sherlock paid the taxi fare and got out first so that he could hold open the door and help John out, which only received a menacing glare. Every attempt to make John feel more comfortable was rejected.

"Ah, boys!" Lestrade called out cheerfully, grinning at the two men as they entered the large doors of the old, deserted building. "Guessing you got the text about this murder? We can't seem to get anywhere."

"Obviously," Sherlock stated. He was unable to deny that the case made him feel even slightly better. "Because you're all idiots. Where's the body?"

Lestrade lead the way, and John seemed somewhat appalled by Sherlock's statement about the police being idiots. A harsh strike of anger pushed past the detective as John passed him, which caused Sherlock some discomfort. Nonetheless, he continued to deal with the case.

It took less than fifteen minutes for Sherlock to solve the murder, which only received an eye roll from Donovan as her and Anderson headed out to arrest the murderer. Before Lestrade followed them, he manouvered Sherlock and John to the corner of the room so that he could speak to them privately.

"John, this is against regulation, but you should have this," Lestrade whispered, handing the ex-soldier a small, beige file. "It's a record of every single case you and Sherlock solved. It also has some information about him that you may need, considering your, er, condition."

However, John did not verbally respond. He shot Lestrade a patronising look and snatched the folder out of his hands as Lestrade followed Donovan and Anderson like a lost puppy. He scanned the file regarding Sherlock. _**34 years old, date of birth: 6th January 1980, consulting detective, brother is Mycroft Holmes, full name: William Sherlock Scott Holmes...**_

"Your first name is William?" He mumbled, trying to make it sound as though he wasn't actually interested.

Sherlock nodded.

"So why do you call yourself Sherlock?"

"Why do you care?"

John stepped backwards uneasily, wincing. "Just curious."

With a broken voice and a long moment of silence, Sherlock finally spoke. "It's a long story."

"I have time."

He took a deep breath and began to speak. "When I was a child, I wanted to be a pirate. I had a dog named Redbeard and I would call myself Bootstrap Bill - it's ridiculous, I know. Redbeard had to be put down, and I was heartbroken. I requested that my brother and parents would no longer call me William or Bill, but to call me Sherlock. Because, what was the point of being a pirate without Redbeard?

"By changing my name to and becoming Sherlock, I was able to harden his shell and expel emotions. I erradicated my dreams of becoming a pirate, all those feelings I had, all that  _sentiment_ , locking them away with Billy so that I could focus on my intellect. That's where Mycroft stepped in. He taught me how to hone my skills, how to master my brain and the world around me. This allowed Billy to slip further and further way, and to allow Sherlock to rise to the surface. And now, whenever I fall too deep in my sentiment, Mycroft reminds me of Redbeard. To prevent myself from getting hurt, and to stop Billy making a return.

"Redbeard was, up until a few years ago, my only friend and the only thing I had truly loved. There was only one other person who was able to change my life like Redbeard did, and that was also the only person I have and still do love."

John's bright blue eyes widened in awe and shock, not expecting that response. "Who's the other person?"

It took a few moments for Sherlock to pluck up the courage to actually reply, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. "You."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is really short and crappy but I was bored and wanted to write something okay bye


End file.
